


vanish inside your kiss

by skatzaa



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Captain America: The Winter Soldier Compliant, Cunnilingus, Dom/sub Undertones, F/F, First Kiss, Getting Together, Keeping Your Eyes Closed In Lieu of a Blindfold, Light Bondage, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Minor Injuries, Not Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie) Compliant, Not Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Compliant, POV Second Person, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Reader has a shapeshifting power, Reader-Insert, Shapeshifting, Smut, Smut in Chapter 2 Only, Superhero Colleagues To Friends To Lovers, Superheroes, Swearing, Teasing, Vaginal Fingering, Various Avengers Mentioned - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-07
Updated: 2020-06-07
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:35:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24580933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skatzaa/pseuds/skatzaa
Summary: Maybe she can see something in your gaze, because she switches tracks, slightly. “My full name is Natasha Romanoff, and I work with the Avengers. We’ve got plenty of heroes on rotation, but we need more.” She stares at you, hard, her blue-gray eyes piercing. “We could use talent like yours.”A jet black business card appears in her hand. Using two fingers, she pushes it across the tabletop toward you.What.
Relationships: Natasha Romanov (Marvel)/Female Reader, Natasha Romanov (Marvel)/Reader
Comments: 3
Kudos: 84
Collections: Fandom 5K 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PrisonersDilemma](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrisonersDilemma/gifts).



> Hello! PrisonersDilemma, I hope you enjoy. I've written second person POV only once before, and never reader insert, so I hope this is an alright first attempt! ^-^ 
> 
> This exists in a nebulous AU sometime after The Winter Soldier, but before AoU and Civil War. Despite that, the New Avengers Facility exists, and some of the later Avengers are included, because I said so.
> 
> Rating is for the epilogue/smut in the second chapter only. This chapter is rated T for swearing, mostly.

“I can help who’s next.”

Even though it’s late in the day and almost to the end of your shift, you do your best to keep a natural looking smile on your face as the next patron steps forward. You recognize her, vaguely; something about the slope of her nose and the faded red of her shoulder length hair. She looks about as tired as you feel, her reading glasses doing nothing to hide the slight bags under her eyes. She smiles wanly at you. At least her library card is already in her hands; no fumbling through all the pockets of her wallet in order to dig it out. 

You appreciate that enormously, and hope your smile conveys that as you take the card from her hand and scan it.

“Hi Ms. Roman,” you say, glancing at her account summary, “it looks like we have two items on hold for you today. Would you like me to grab them?”

Next to you, your coworker, Diana, calls up the next person in line, an exhausted mother with a fussy infant cradled in her arms. You’re glad you don’t have to deal with her; it’s always so hard to hand off cards and items to people with babies.

Ms. Roman nods, and, leaving her card on the counter, you motion for her to wait while you go grab the holds. It’s just a quick trip to the back hallway, and you leaf through the slips until you find ROMAN, NAT–.

It’s bad practice to judge a patron’s check outs, so you try not to look at titles where patrons can see you, lest they read into the gesture. But as you’re walking, you peek down at the titles. One is a generic cozy mystery novel, this particular one with a clip art style pie on the cover, and the other is the new Avengers nonfic that everyone’s been raving about.

Back at the counter, you start the check out process, and say, “I’m so jealous you got this! I’m still like, two hundredth in line.”

She smiles. 

“I travel a lot for work. Thought this might be an… interesting read.” Her head cocks slightly to one side. “Though I heard they didn’t interview any of the Avengers. Well, except for Iron Man.”

Oh. You frown down at the cover; you hadn’t heard about that.

Diana arrives back at her work station, staggering under a towering stack of picture books for the mother with the baby. You wince in sympathy; there’s already a pile of at least twenty books on the counter that the patron found while browsing. 

“Well, I hope you enjoy it either way,” you tell her. “Would you like a receipt or a bag today?”

Ms. Roman deliberates for a moment. When she tilts her head, her hair slips across the smooth fabric of her jacket. “Sure, why not. Both, please.”

It’s a familiar enough motion to pull out a bag and slide the books in the bag. It’s another moment to print the receipt and tuck it alongside the books. 

The baby is starting to fuss a little more loudly as you flip the bag around so the handles are facing Ms. Roman. Diana is usually pretty unflappable, but you can tell she’s feeling a bit flustered, between the mom’s tired impatience, the ridiculous number of books she still has to check out, and the baby’s steadily increasing volume.

The last thing you want at the end of your shift is a crying infant induced headache.

The baby is looking right at you. You sneak a glance at Ms. Roman, but she’s busy tucking her card back into her wallet, fastidiously slow. The mom is shoving books into her own reusable bag with her free hand, and Diana is preoccupied with checking items out. There’s no one in line.

Reassured that the coast is clear, you look back at the baby and  _ shift. _

It’s just a tiny shift, really: turning your nose into a pig’s nose for a flash, then back to normal. The baby is so startled that she stops in her metaphorical tracks, cries all but forgotten. 

Ms. Roman clears her throat lightly and says, “Have a good day.”

“You too,” you say, so automatic you don't even have to think bout it, then glance over at her. She’s already turning away. “Thanks for coming in today!”

She waves at you over her shoulder. 

You wait a heartbeat, then look back at the baby. She’s still staring at you. 

What the hell, it can’t hurt anything. You  _ shift _ your nose again, and even get a little laugh out of the kid.

On your first day off in an eight day stretch, you sleep until almost noon, and only drag yourself out of bed because your favorite café closes at two, and you are  _ not _ missing out on coffee that isn’t from the terrible Keurig machine in the break room. 

Anita waves at you when you stumble through the café doors, only slightly less asleep than you were in bed. By the time you reach the till, Anita’s already got your order punched in and all you have to do is fumble your card out of your wallet and swipe it through the card reader. She’s been running this café in this neighborhood for longer than you’ve been alive, you’re pretty sure, and days like this you’re very thankful for that fact.

“Thank you, Anita,” you say, as heartfelt as you can manage when you feel as though you’re dead on your feet.

She makes a little  _ bah _ sound of dismissal. “They work you too hard over there, baby girl.”

Jamie, the only barista you’ve ever seen working here besides Anita, chimes in with, “Yeah, well, with Westchester Square closed after last week, it’s only gonna get worse.”

You don’t even want to  _ think _ about the Westchester Square branch closing for “unexpected remodeling,” a well known phrase in New York City that could mean anything from  _ turns out we have mutated turtles living in our drainage system _ to  _ the Avengers wrecked the whole block fighting the latest villain of the week _ to  _ Spider Man got a little over enthusiastic with his web-slinging again and broke all our windows.  _ With Westchester Square out of commission, all their patrons will be filtering over to your branch, and you’re already understaffed as it is, overworked as hell trying to provide services to your own community.

You snap out of it when Jamie plunks your drink down in front of you, a sugar and caffeine laden monstrosity that you’ve put years into perfecting. He dashes away and is back a moment later, placing one of your favorite muffins next to the coffee. He gives you an apologetic smile and says, “To make up for stressing you out about work on your day off.”

“Go sit down, baby,” Anita says. “Your favorite spot just opened up.”

You turn and make your way to the overstuffed armchair in the corner, the one that’s precisely positioned to have light all morning and afternoon, perfect for when you’re up earlier and come here to curl up with something to read. Today, you forewent the book when trying to make it out of your apartment in one piece, and so you just plop down in the chair and stab your straw through the cup’s plastic lid.

The first sip feels like you’ve shot it straight into your bloodstream and you sigh with relief. Thank  _ god _ for Jamie’s coffee making skills.

You pick at the muffin and take periodic sips of your coffee as you scroll through social media on your phone, the café always comfortably full around you, the volume of the background noise ebbing and flowing but never fading away entirely.

Someone sits down at the chair across from you and you glance up. It takes a moment to place the red hair, but then you realize, “Ms. Roman?”

“Hey,” she says, voice just slightly husky. She looks different, somehow. Maybe it's the lack of glasses, or the fact that she’s in a soft cardigan instead of an overly large rain jacket. “Call me Nat. Mind if I sit here?”

“Oh, not at all.” You gesture, even though she’s already seated. Embarrassed, you try to take a sip of your coffee only to find that all that’s left is whipped cream. Damn. Too late, you realize you haven’t given your name in return.

She doesn’t seem concerned, instead focusing on pulling her egg sandwich apart to rearrange the bacon so it covers the top of the egg more fully. Nat’s coffee is black, in one of the nice ceramic mugs that Anita allows customers to use in the shop. You watch as she rips open one packet of sugar and pours it in, stirring briefly with a spoon.

It’s always weird running into a patron outside of the library, and this is even weirder, because Nat isn’t trying to make conversation or wheedle you about overdue fees. She just… sits back in her own armchair and pulls the cozy mystery you checked out for her from within her messenger bag, and begins to read. Her coffee and egg sandwich are left on the table between your two chairs, like she’ll get to them in just a moment. 

Unsure what else to do, you sink back in your chair again and unlock your phone.

A short while later, when you’re in the middle of reading someone’s latest hot take on why the Avengers should be locked up, citing some sort of failed motion that was proposed in the UN last year, Nat says, “Can I ask you something?”

“Uh. Sure.” You get a lot of weird questions from patrons, especially those you run into outside of the library. 

Nat sets her book aside and her eyes flit up to meet yours.

“How long have you worked for the library?”

“Oh.” You think, then shrug. “I dunno, a few years. Since I got out of school.”

“You like it?”

You hope she isn’t about to go off on how libraries are a dying institution; dealing with those sorts of people is the worst. But she doesn’t strike you as that type. Especially not with the cozy mystery.

You shrug again. “Yeah. It wasn’t what I expected I would be doing, but I enjoy meeting all the different types of people.”

She hums under her breath, then seems to consider you for a moment. Something about her is… sharp, and unsettling. Nothing like the soft woman who’d been sitting with you a moment ago, enjoying a tame mystery novel. AT last, Nat seems to come to a decision.

“I saw you at the library, with that baby.” You stiffen without meaning to, your shoulders up by your ear. It’s not easy to relax. Her careful eyes watch you. “When you made your nose change.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you say, but you can tell she doesn’t believe you. Stupid, stupid,  _ stupid.  _ You’ve managed to stay under the radar your whole life, only to get caught making faces at a baby? “What do you want?”

She leans forward, bracing her arms on the tabletop. She says, “You heard about the incident last week with that whack job who went around calling himself MODOK?”

You don’t know what that has to do with anything, but you nod. He’d hijacked a news station and broadcasted a bunch of crazy demands, before wrecking a good portion of the Bronx, including the library you were talking about earlier with Jamie. 

“Well, he took some of the Avengers out of commission for a while,” she says. What? What does that matter, and why is she telling  _ you? _ Maybe she can see something of that in your gaze, because she switches tracks, slightly. “My full name is Natasha Romanoff, and I work with the Avengers. We’ve got plenty of heroes on rotation, but if MODOK showed us anything, it’s that we need more.” She stares at you, hard, her blue-gray eyes piercing. “We could use a talent like yours.”

A jet black business card appears in her hand. Using two fingers, she pushes it across the tabletop toward you. 

_ What. _

You pick up the card gingerly and look down. It has the Avengers logo branded in the middle of one side, subtly enough that you can only see it when you shift it back and forth. On the other side, there’s a ten digit phone number with an upstate New York area code. Nothing else.

You look back up at Nat—Natasha?—who’s tucking her book back into her purse. She stands and slings the strap of her bag over one shoulder. Looks down at you. Says, “No pressure, but you should call that number if you’re interested. The world needs more heroes everyday.”

She walks away before you have the opportunity to tell her that you don’t think you’ll ever be hero material.

The card burns a hole in your pocket for the rest of the week. Each time you go to work, you find yourself thinking,  _ this could be the last time I help this patron,  _ or,  _ I might never have to shelve a Rainbow Fairies book again.  _ That one isn’t too bad, actually, but still… you can’t imagine just giving this life up. You’ve worked  _ hard _ to build some sort of a life here, and you’re not sure you want to give it up for the pipe dream of being a superhero.

But then you think about 2011, and how the only thing that saved the city was a group of six people, who had superpowers similar to the ones you’ve always been told to hide. 

Before you make a decision, you research. Because if there’s anything that your years at the library have taught you it’s rocking research skills, and an insatiable desire to know everything possible (within reason) before making a recommendation to a patron. You dig through the SHIELD files that were dumped on the web a few years ago, and even shell out to travel downtown to see the exhibit NYPL has up, detailing the progression of American history due to Hydra’s influence. It’s chilling, all of it, but you see the same faces over and over again: Natasha Romanoff’s is one of them.

The phone number isn’t linked to anything you can see online, but it  _ is _ one digit off from the Avengers Facility’s hotline. Maybe not the most secure decision ever, but it’s enough to convince you that this isn’t a con, or some weird ass sexual slavery ring that’s going to kidnap you the moment they get you alone. At least, you’re pretty sure. 

After a week of sitting and thinking, wondering if you’ll even have what it takes to do the sort of things Natasha Romanoff does on a daily basis, you pick up the phone. 

Nothing happens instantly, of course, because it’s not exactly like you can call up the library director and say,  _ oh, I need special allowances because the Avengers want me to train with them, how does ten hours a week remotely sound? _ And then there’s the issue with your apartment, and how you’ll continue to make mortgage payments when you don’t have a job, but that mysteriously becomes a non-issue once you call the number and Tony  _ fucking _ Stark picks up at the other end of the line. 

It’s almost a month, actually, before you find yourself standing outside the sprawling Avengers Facility, with a duffel bag thrown over your shoulder and assurances from your driver that the rest of your belongings will be delivered to the room that’ll be yours now. The compound is a monstrosity of glass and steel, too modern for your tastes, but impressive nonetheless. 

A door opens, and out steps Natasha, red hair twisted up and out of the way. She looks entirely different, and the sleek workout outfit is only part of it. The muscles in her arms are no longer hidden by bulky clothing, and her legs are ridiculously toned. You have to look away before she catches you staring. 

“Hey,” she says, an echo from the coffee shop. There’s a little quirk to her lips that matches the air of self confidence that she’s wrapped herself in. 

You say hi back, then fidget with the strap of your duffel to keep from staring at either her or the building. 

“Why don’t I show you to your room?” she says, after the silence has stretched out for so long that it's edging on awkward. “You can get settled in. Or we could jump right into training.”

The thought of  _ any _ sort of training with Natasha and all of her ridiculous muscles, when you’re still sore from sitting in a car for four hours and probably haven’t exercised consistently since you were in high school, is more than a little daunting. But there’s something in the tilt of her chin, the quirk of her mouth, that conveys a dare.

“Let me get changed and we can start on training,” you say, trying to sound confident instead of scared out of your wits.

The Black Widow is going to kick your ass, and there’s nothing you can do to stop it.

The Black Widow does  _ not _ kick your ass, but, somehow, this is worse.

“Is that all you can do?” Natasha asks, frowning slightly. She doesn’t say it in a mean or condescending way, but you still feel a flicker of shame run down your spine.

The gym she took you to after dropping off your duffel is large and impersonal, decked out in monochromatic shades of black and gray. Cool air wafts over your skin, and you feel exposed in the workout clothes that had been dug up from somewhere and offered to you; the shorts are a little too short, and the shirt a little too tight across your stomach. You drop the shift, shrinking down to your normal height, and shrug. “Basically. I’ve always been told to hide it.”

There haven’t been many people in your life who’ve known. Your family, obviously, and your best friend in first grade, back when that sort of thing made you seem cool instead of a freak. But no one else since then.

“To recap: you can shift facial features for short periods of time, can alter the color and length of your hair pretty consistently, and sometimes you make yourself slightly taller to reach items on the top shelves of your cabinets.”

Well, you sound really lame when it’s laid out like that, but basically, yeah. You nod.

“Okay,” she says, sighing. “We’ll start with the last one, then. It’s a step in the right direction, at least.”

Natasha paces for a few seconds, back and forth in front of you, fingers pinching the bridge of her nose, then she turns on her heel and looks at you. She takes a deep breath and relaxes her shoulders minutely. 

“Okay,” she says again. “We’ll be focusing on two things: physical training and strengthening your power.” Something must show on your face, because she cracks a slight smile. “Your power has a lot of potential, but it’s a muscle like any other.  _ And _ it’ll be stronger the more you condition your physical body.”

Oh  _ no, _ that sounds exactly like the type of thing someone says immediately before inflicting you to a hell of a lot of pain.

You get a full tour of the compound after, still sweat-soaked and already starting to get a little sore. Natasha explains that there’s something like twenty-something members on the full team, these days, a staggering difference from the six heroes that defended New York against an alien invasion all those years ago. But there’s usually never more than seven or so in residence at any one time, for various reasons that she doesn’t get into. 

It doesn’t take a lot of effort to focus on the building, and the random, abstract paintings that are hanging everywhere even though they don’t really match, well,  _ anything.  _ So long as it keeps your mind off of how poorly you did in your first ever training session to be a superhero. 

Unlike the gym, with its black and gray everything, and your own room, still a blank slate of neutral beiges, the rest of the compound is almost exclusively gray with red and gold highlights  _ everywhere.  _ If you hadn’t already known that Iron Man bankrolled this whole operation, that probably would’ve clued you in. 

You meet Spider-Man, who’s only recognizable as, you know,  _ Spider-Man,  _ because you physically run into each other, and you’ve definitely watched a few of the Vine compilations of him saying  _ sorry!!! _ over and over again to random people, pets, and stationary objects across Queens. The kid (seriously, he’s a  _ kid, _ what’s he even  _ doing  _ here) offers you a hand up and pulls so hard that you almost go flying.

“Sorry!!” he says again, and gives you a sheepish smile before offering his hand again, this time to shake. You take it, trying not to grin “Oh, no way! You must be the new recruit Mr. Stark was talking about! I’m Peter.” He’s still shaking your hand, very enthusiastically. “You’re the shapeshifter, right? That’s pretty cool. Hey—what if I call you Holo?”

Uh. You look at Natasha, who rolls her eyes. She says, “Tony’s a big fan of nicknames, and the habit’s rubbed off on Peter a bit. But even I don’t get Holo.”

“You  _ know,” _ Peter says, even though you definitely don’t know, “like the holodecks in Star Trek? You can change how you look.”

“I’m pretty sure the holodecks altered the environment,” you say, but neither of them are listening.

Natasha levels Peter with a look, one that includes a raised eyebrow.

“Uhhh, I gotta go,” Peter says, as he slowly starts to back away, hands raised as though he’s surrendering, “becauseIhavesomehomeworktofinish, but it was nice to meet you, Holo! Bye!”

Seriously? _ Homework? _ You know Spider-Man is pretty handy in a jam, but he’s so much younger than you.  _ What. _

Natasha’s looking at you like she can read your mind. “He’s a good kid. Bit excitable, like a puppy, but good. He’s got a lot of potential.”

Just like you, apparently, but somehow you don’t see yourself pulling off even the tamest stunt you’ve seen Spider-Man do on the news. 

Captain  _ fucking  _ America and the  _ goddamn Falcon _ are next, and it’s all you can do to keep your cool. Yeah, you’ve already met Natasha and  _ Spider-Man, _ but one is a spy that isn’t in news coverage _ ever, _ basically, and the other is apparently a literal high schooler. This is Captain America and the  _ Falcon. _ You know what Natasha was going for by subtly comparing you to Peter, but you still find yourself looking up to the Falcon a lot more, because he’s just an Air Force vet with a set of wings, and he keeps up effortlessly with the enhanced heroes.

(You’ve seen that video floating around on the internet—honestly, who hasn’t—of him and Thor working out together. Nothing can compare to a seven hundred pound demigod whose actual molecular structure is denser than any human’s could ever be, but  _ damn _ he held his own.)

They’re in what looks like the most pimped out version of a workplace lounge you’ve ever seen. Captain America, wearing a pair of flannel pajama pants so long the fabric pools around his ankles, is bending down to check out something out of the fridge while the Falcon leans against the counter. He nods at you as the two of you walk up, but he doesn’t do anything to stop Captain  _ fucking  _ America from saying, just as you walk into earshot, “If Tony says ‘that really is America’s ass’  _ one more time—” _

“Hey fellas,” Natasha says.

Captain America jolts, banging his head on the top of the fridge. He groans as he stands upright, and the Falcon doesn’t do anything to hide his laugh. Once they’re both facing you, she continues, “Steve, Sam, this is—”

“Our newest recruit,” Sam fills in, an easy smile on his face. He steps forward and offers you a firm handshake. “Tony filled us in earlier. I’m Sam, and this big lug is Steve.”

He says it as if he expects you to actually refer to  _ Captain fucking America  _ and the  _ goddamn Falcon  _ as Steve and Sam. Yeah right. 

“Peter’s already calling her Holo,” Natasha says, and her tone conveys exactly what she thinks of that.

Captain Amer—oh hell,  _ Steve, _ because his title is way too long to keep thinking, even in your own head—makes a very eloquent face. He shakes your hand too, though his hand is so massive that it dwarfs your own.

“Nat,” he says as he steps back, in a tone that would be perilously close to whining if it was anyone else, “what did I tell you about sneaking up on me?”

“I wasn’t sneaking,” she asserts, completely unfazed. “It’s not my problem if you can’t hear me over the sound of your own complaining—”

It devolves from there into a friendly squabble, and you go stand next to Sam (the Falcon!) when he motions you over. The two of you stand together, watching them, for a while. Even you can admit that it’s sort of funny to see Captain America puffed up like an alley cat and being badgered by a woman who’s half his size. 

“I know this can be a little overwhelming, at first,” Sam says to you, low enough that it won’t interrupt whatever it is Steve and Natasha are picking at now. “Trust me, I get it. But we’re all just people too, people who want to help others, no matter the cost.”

Standing here, watching these superhumans act like regular people, you can believe that.

There’s more, later, more rooms and faces and hands to shake. They all sort of blur together after Steve and Sam, but you’re  _ pretty _ sure you called Ant-Man  _ Mr. Ant-Man  _ to his face, in front of  _ Tony Stark.  _ You’ll just never show your face in public again. Yeah, that’ll probably fix it.

You collapse onto a surprisingly soft bed, and then it’s morning, and someone is knocking on your door. Dragging yourself out of bed takes an enormous amount of effort, and every bit of you is aching and sore. There’s another knock, and you forgo trying to fix your bedhead or changing out of pajamas in order to get them to  _ stop.  _ Maybe, if you’re really pathetic, they’ll even let you go back to bed. 

It’s Natasha, in another high necked, sleeveless workout shirt. It’s like she  _ knows  _ you’re into well-muscled women who could undoubtedly kick your ass.

She smiles, and it’s a sharp, sparking thing.

Needless to say, you don’t go back to sleep right then. 

It repeats day after day, rotating through cardio and strength and endurance training, and learning how to lengthen this part of your body or bulk up this muscle group, or how to tweak your facial features enough that you’re unrecognizable as yourself. Once that’s done, you drag yourself to some pseudo-classroom with a couch that’s too uncomfortable for how much money it must’ve cost and a whiteboard that Natasha likes to use a little too much.

You’re not going to be the next Thor, but that was never really what you expected. This is spy work, but, you think, that’ll suit you better anyway. You’re being trained in infiltration, probably, along with a dozen other things you can’t pick out of the situations and logic puzzles she puts in front of you.

There was some information about the Red Room program in that NYPL exhibit you toured. You doubt this is the way she was taught, but for all she’s demanding, exacting, she’s also kind.

Natasha never expects more from you than you’re able to give, and you value that kindness. 

There comes a day when you’re in the gym, sweat dripping down to the band of your sports bra and your hair sticking to your face, when Natasha says, “Good, now grow two inches.”

You close your eyes and feel your body stretching, just a little. This type of shifting, you’ve learned, is… different, from just making your nose look funny. You have to change the way you think about yourself and your body—you’re not putting on a mask when you shift like this, but instead, you’re twisting your own fabric into a new shape.

“Good,” Natasha says again, and there’s a hint of genuine warmth in her voice that catches you so off guard that the shift slips right through your fingers. You shrink back down again, feeling a little like a rubber band snapping back into place. 

You open your eyes and look at Natasha, who gives you a wry smile.

“Next,” she says, sounding like she’s trying not to laugh, “we’ll work on holding it through distractions.”

There’s an honest to god rec room in the compound, complete with a pool table, foosball table, and movie theater seating around an oversized screen tucked away in one corner. Also a popcorn machine. Also, a mini fridge that’s full of some terrible brand of beer that you’ve never actually seen anyone drink.

It’s not actually Friday night, but all of the Avengers-in-residence are actually here, and not off on some mission, so it’s been officially designated as a Friday stand in. Sam and Steve are kicking ass at foosball, while Scott Lang  _ (not _ Mr. Ant-Man) is loudly losing at pool to Wanda, who you haven’t really met yet. She seems pretty cool, though, from what you know of her.

You’re curled up in one of the theater chairs between Peter and Natasha, who keep passing a ridiculously large bowl of too salty popcorn over the top of your head.

“We definitely aren’t watching that,” Peter protests. “Hey, Holo, back me up here.”

“I hate to break it to you, Pete,” Tony calls, then curses as Steve and Sam score on him and Rhodey again, “but you might be the only person here who  _ doesn’t _ like the Breakfast Club.”

“But it’s so  _ old,” _ Peter says, borderline whining, which sets them all off. He looks to you for support, but you give him a wry smile.

“Sorry kid, that’s a classic,” you tell him, and he groans, dropping his head back against the chair cushion.

Natasha ruffles your hair briefly as she reaches over you to steal the popcorn while Peter’s distracted. She says, low and close enough to your ear that you can feel the warmth of her breath, “Good taste.”

A flush of pleased embarrassment washes through you, and you scrunch down in your seat a little more, just as David Bowie’s lyrics shatter to reveal Shermer High School.

At some point, you discover that you’ve listed slightly to the side, and Nat has listed slightly towards you, so that your shoulders are touching over the arms of your theater seats. She doesn’t pull away, even when Peter makes a run on the popcorn, so you don’t either.

She’s warm and pliant next to you, and you think,  _ oh. _

Good taste indeed. 

You wake up one day and realize a few things all at once. 

One: you aren’t sore, even though you ran a few miles yesterday and held a ridiculously complex shift—shoulders, hips, legs, nose, chin, forehead,  _ hair— _ for nearly an hour while Natasha made you navigate an obstacle course, over and over again. 

Two: it’s been almost four months since you arrived on the Avenger’s doorstep, clutching the strap of your duffel for something to hold onto. You miss the library still, and your apartment, and Anita’s, but you feel at home here in a way you hadn’t expected to. 

Three: you’re well on your way to being in love with Nat. 

That last one isn’t as much of a surprise as you want to pretend it is. 

“You know,” Nat says to you one day, as the two of you are working through some cool down stretches after a long run, “it’s probably going to be a while, before you’re ready to be in the field.”

You drop your arms, swinging them a little bit, before swinging back up to stretch your other bicep. 

“I know.” She shoots you a look, her eyebrow raised, and you shrug as best you can with your arms tangled up like this. “It’s not like I was expecting a magical girl transformation where I’d suddenly be a fully competent superhero.” You fidget a little, though you know it’s a bad habit. “I don’t know if it makes me a coward, but I’m not really upset. I still feel like there’s a lot more to learn before I’m ready to do the stuff you guys do all the time.”

Nat smiles a little bit, then studies your shift. “Yeah, that’s good. You just need your hair to be a quarter inch longer.”

This type of precision is still tricky, slippery, almost, but you tilt your head to one side and focus on your hair, teasing it just a little bit longer. 

She looks down at her tablet, then back up. “Perfect.”

You hold your hand out for a fist bump, and she obliges, giving you a goofy grin.

“Okay. Now you’ve gotta go through Course 3B again.”

You don’t groan, but only because you don’t want your concentration to slip. 

It’s close to midnight, and you know you should be asleep by now, but you’ve been tossing and turning for hours to no avail. 

Giving in, you slip out of bed and through your door, heading for the staff lounge on the fourth floor, because that one’s not near any of the bedrooms and even superheroes, you’ve learned, can be lazy sometimes. The one on the second floor, where you met Steve and Sam for the first time, usually has someone in it no matter the hour, and you don’t really feel like dealing with anyone.

Nat’s been gone for three weeks now, and Peter reassured you that that’s pretty typical for the sort of work she does, but you can’t help but feel disquieted by her absence. This is the longest you’ve gone without seeing her since arriving here, and the longest you’ve gone without any sort of training regime. You’ve tried to keep up on your own, googling pictures of random people and trying to mirror them, or following your cardio and weight training exercises, but it’s not the same without her there to give you a sly smile and advice on some minor adjustment here or there.

The compound is quiet around you as you pad through the hallways. Wanda is definitely here, because you saw her over a lame microwave dinner, and probably Tony and Rhodey. Maybe Thor. But if any of them are awake, they aren’t near here. You wonder if you could shift yourself to physically blend in better, to take on the long shadows of abandoned hallways or the dapples that fall through the trees in the forest beyond the compound, or if that is beyond your scope, an issue of light over matter. Something to suggest to Nat, maybe

There’s a light on in the lounge, but that isn’t unusual. Tony has a policy of always keeping at least a nightlight on in every room, and you’ve never heard anyone object to that.

You’re not sure what you’re doing here, beyond the desire to move. Maybe you’ll make a mug of hot chocolate, curl up in one of the armchairs with the latest eBook you checked out on your phone. 

You push through the door and freeze.

Nat is sitting on the counter by the sink, feet braced against the lower cabinets and she tries to hold a strip of gauze over some scrape on her upper arm and rip open the packaging of an ace bandage with her teeth at the same time. She’s covered in sickly bruises, and there's a cut above one eyebrow that’s held together with a butterfly bandage. Nat looks like she’s been tossed down a mountainside or two, but she’s still the best thing you’ve ever seen. 

She looks up and sees you, standing there in the doorway in the stupid pajama pants that someone left in your room last month. They’re part of an official licensed Avengers clothing line, and they’re thick and fluffy and patterned with a red hourglass. You only reluctantly broke them out tonight, because they’re soft, and also because you’re a love struck idiot. 

Her mouth quirks into a smile around the plastic package, and it jolts you into motion, making you step forward and reach out as you say, “Let me.”

She does, and it goes much more smoothly with an extra set of hands. 

You don’t comment on the blood that’s already seeping through the gauze, only pull another strip out of the box and hand it to her. She dips her chin in thanks, and you wait until she’s laid the gauze flat to step closer and begin to wrap the bandage around the meat of her arm. Your fingers graze her skin, and you’re relieved to find that she’s warm but not feverish.

When you’re done, you begin to move back, but she reaches for you in a half-aborted motion. You stop, stay close. 

There’s a moment where you just look at each other, close enough that you can feel the heat from her body.

Her eyes are washed out, almost gray, in the low light, but smoldering with the same determination when you need to run just one last mile, or tweak that  _ final _ piece of your shift.

Your breath is so shallow you can barely feel your own chest moving, the anticipation overwhelming every other thought.

Nat’s mouth quirks into a smile, and it’s a challenge.

You lean in. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Keep on going for some smutty smut, if that's your thing. If not, thanks for reading! Comments and kudos are always appreciated <3


	2. Epilogue: Smut

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some smutty, smutty goodness to round out the fluff. Takes place some time after the end of Ch 1, but it's up to you how long it's been!

You keep your eyes closed, because you were told to.

There’s nothing. Then: Fingers ghost down your arms, from the meat of your biceps to the soft underside of your forearms, stopping just short of the silk ties holding your wrists tight.

The touch disappears and you wait, breathless, for it to return. Seconds tick by with nothing and you huff, frustrated. But still, nothing.

You open your eyes to the side of red hair flipped over one shoulder, a curling smirk, pale, smooth skin.

“Close your eyes,” Nat says. Then adds, fondly, “Brat.”

You do as you’re told, sinking back into darkness, and count five breaths before the touch continues, this time starting at your knees and up to the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, rubbing little circles. The touch grows stronger, massaging just outside the elastic of your underwear. Your hips shift involuntarily, seeking out direct contact, but Nat only draws away again. 

Heartbeats sound in your ear, but she doesn't touch you, even when you plant your feet on the bed and push your hips off the mattress, a whine building at the back of your throat. 

Fingers against your sternum, soothing and reassuring. “Shh. I was only tying my hair back.”

You subside, and tilt your chin up, asking without words for a kiss. 

The touch shifts, creeping up to brush over the tendons of your neck, then, the lightest pressure against your pulse points. You tilt your head back farther, but she doesn’t press harder. Doesn’t kiss you either, and you frown, frustrated. 

“Tell me what you want?” she whispers, fingers retreating until they’re nothing more than whispers under your chin. 

“Kiss me,” your voice breaks, and you have to swallow before you can add, “please.”

She obliges, taking hold of your chin with her thumb and forefinger, pulling your mouth open just enough that when she kisses you, she can brush the tip of her tongue against yours, just enough to tease. You press up but she pulls back, always just out of reach. 

Nat breaks the kiss, then says, “You’re slipping.”

It takes a moment to place what she means, too focused as you are on the desire to be kissed again, then—you groan, and pull yourself back from that aching, desperate edge in order to adjust your shift. It was your idea in the first place, an idle question, to see if you even could. Now you’re regretting ever saying anything. But you fix the slips all the same, and wait until she comes back.

It takes another stretch of endless seconds before she comes back, and this time, she straddles your hips, her strong thighs gripping just tightly enough that it forces your legs closer together, not splayed across the bed. Another kiss, slick and dirty enough that it shoots straight down to your core, and you buck, trying to get enough friction by rubbing against Nat, but her hips are out of reach. Her breasts slide against yours, bare skin on skin, and you inhale deeply, pushing into the sensation. Your shoulders strain as you pull against the restraints, wanting to touch, to feel.

Nat pulls away just enough to kiss down to your neck, then over to nip at your earlobe. You groan, tilting your head to give better access.

She whispers,  _ “Slipping.” _

_ “Fuck _ that,” you say, and gasp when she nips again, harder this time. 

“Okay.” Hot breath in your ear, and you shudder. “You can let go.”

It’s a relief to let the shift slide away, and your proportions return you to yourself. Nat pulls back, but you keep your eyes closed and let her look at you uninterrupted.

“There you are,” she says, and you can  _ hear _ the smile in her voice. You preen, stretching, rolling your hips as she watches. 

Another kiss, softer this time and sweet, and you can’t keep from smiling.

Nat shifts, leaning forward, one hand coming to press down against your wrist. She keeps kissing you, tongue touching your lips, dipping into your mouth, and she shifts again. Then: light pressure, cupping and rubbing just enough that you can feel it on your clit, even through your underwear. 

You moan into her mouth, arching, pushing back against her hand. And finally,  _ finally, _ she obliges you, tracing up and down, letting you feel how wet you’ve gotten as she’s teased you. Her fingers dip down, rubbing against your entrance, then flick up, letting the fabric of your underwear pull over your clit. She repeats the motion over and over, heat building and pooling. It’s too much and not enough, and you throw your head back, hiding your face under your arm. Sounds spill out of your mouth without your permission, and you think you might be begging.

A warm presence drapes over your torso, and she kisses you again, sucking your bottom lip into her mouth, teething worrying it for just a moment before pulling away.

“You good?” A check in, not planned but appreciated, and you nod, face still covered. You feel hot all over, and it isn’t helped by the fact that she’s still rubbing small circles over and around your clit.

“Yeah,” you gasp, “yeah.  _ Please, _ Nat.”

She draws away, and she pulls your underwear down and off. The air is cool against your skin and you shiver.

A wet, open mouth kiss is pressed to your inner thigh with just a hint of teeth, then another, further down, and another, until she’s worrying the skin at the crease of your hip, sucking hard enough that it’ll leave a mark later.

You bite your lip as she lets go, and the moment drags out. You can hear your heartbeat in your ears, rushing and tumbling as you wait for her next move.

Fingers part your lower lips and then there’s a hot touch to the soft spot between your clit and your entrance. You whine, drawing your knees up to have some sort of purchase on the mattress. Nat drags her tongue up and you dig your toes into the comforter.

You’re too hot as she strokes you over and over, and it takes all your willpower to keep your hips still. You can’t keep from gasping into the space between your arm and the pillow, trying not to pull too hard on the silk ties. Your fingers grasp empty air, desperate to bury your fingers in her hair, but she’s too far away. 

She closes her lips around you and sucks, rolling her tongue in a rough circle. It shoots through you, and you clench down on emptiness.

“F-Fingers,” you manage.

Nat gives you one finger, then two, curling as she rubs forward and back, all the while sucking and licking, over and over and  _ over— _

_ Ah,  _ there,  _ there. _ You clench on her fingers, tilting your hips down so she hits that spot again. “Yeah.  _ Yeah. _ Just a little bit more.  _ Please.” _

Fuck.  _ Fuck, _ your ears are burning, your cheeks, your lower stomach on fire as you build higher and higher. You stutter on your next breath as you crest and shatter, heat and pleasure flooding through you.

Nat strokes you through it, her mouth and fingers moving until you choke and say, “Okay, okay. That’s good.”

She pulls away slowly, kissing each of your thighs in turn, and then you feel her crawl up your body to tuck herself against your side, one hand smoothing down your stomach and side.

“That was good?” she asks, voice soft and fond.

You nod, and finally open your eyes, a little groggy in the wake of your orgasm. Nat’s face is flushed, strands of hair clinging to her forehead. Her eyes are bright in the lamp light as she stares down at you. You say, “Untie me?”

In a moment, your arms are free and you pull them down, tucking them close to your chest. There’s a slight burn in your shoulders that means you’ll be sore tomorrow, but that’s more than alright.

Nat kisses you, slow and sweet, and you can’t stop yourself from smiling into it.

“Do you–?”

“Later,” she says, bringing her hand up to cup your cheek. “Relax, now.”

You turn your head and press a kiss to her shoulder, the hollow under her throat. She hums happily.

“Love you.”

“Love  _ you.” _

You’re already looking forward to later, but you’ll bask in this warmth with her for as long as you can.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed! Comments and kudos are very much appreciated.


End file.
